


For Everything That's Burned

by significantowl



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Claire Could Definitely Use a Vacation, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Matt Could Probably Use a Hug, Mental Health Issues, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 16:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7471317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Claire finds him with his hands laced behind his head and his face pressed to his knees, trying to pull the freshness of cotton and synthetic brightness of laundry detergent into his lungs. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>She does that now, drops by on random days, at unpredictable hours. Checking in, checking up.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Everything That's Burned

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little thing I started the day after I finished s2; it was meant to be the start of something else, but for better or worse it turned into this :)
> 
> Many thanks to Elliceluella for her eyes and ears! ♥

The charred smell is coming from the stove. It’s burnt eggs and melted plastic and bitter smoke. Matt gagged and he dry heaved and he spit onto the floor, but there are still ashes in his throat, whisper-thin and so hard to breathe through. So hard.

He was cooking, and then he wasn’t. That was the chain of events.

He doesn't make it out of the kitchen on his own. Claire finds him with his hands laced behind his head and his face pressed to his knees, trying to pull the freshness of cotton and synthetic brightness of laundry detergent into his lungs. 

She does that now, drops by on random days, at unpredictable hours. Checking in, checking up. It's clear she doesn't think anyone else will, and when Matt tells her she doesn't need to either, he's _fine_ , Claire always asks who he thinks gave him the monopoly on stubborn.

Today, there's nothing to say.

There's a click as she turns the burner off, and then Claire gets him up, out of the kitchen, and onto the couch. She perches on the coffee table in front of him, knees knocking against his. “Do you remember what happened?” is the first thing she asks, and “Did you hit your head?” is the second.

No, and no. He doesn't _remember_ what happened, but he knows: he went away - to a rooftop, to a hole in the ground, to a shuttered office - and now he's back. Breathing’s still a chore, though, and Matt knows Claire can tell. And she's good at telegraphing her movements; he’s not startled when she presses a hand to his stomach and says, “From here.”

He doesn't actually expect it to work, not with cinders and smoke still in the air, but his body's good at listening to Claire.

“From now on,” Claire says softly, “we’re gonna agree on something. The word _fine_ \- that’s off the table. You don’t get to say it to me any more. Because I don't have time for words that don't mean anything, and neither do you.”

Matt would laugh if he had the breath for it. There she goes, just like him. Always ready to fight the unwinnable fight. 

“Oh, look at that. He thinks I'm a comedian,” Claire says, but there's warmth in her voice as she speaks, and warmth in her hand as she cradles his jaw, touching her thumb to the crook of his smile. 

Matt’s head dips, pressing deeper into her palm. It happens without thought: he's always liked the surety in Claire’s hands, the steadiness, and his bones know she’s got him. She won’t let him fall.

“You should talk about whatever's going on in here, Matt.” Claire's fingertips rub lightly at his temple. “I don't have your hearing, but these two totally ordinary ears? Right here. All yours.” 

She knows he's not going to talk. The longer they sit, the longer he breathes against the anchoring weight of her hand, the more settled her heartbeat becomes. She's hoping for nothing; she's expecting nothing. Matt pulls air in and pushes air out and waits for the uptick that suggests he's outlasted her patience, that she's ready to go.

“Okay,” Claire finally says. “Okay.” Her pulse doesn't change; Matt's swings towards confusion. “We're agreeing on one more thing, then. You promise not to give me shit the next time I walk through that door.”

Matt moves his lips experimentally before trying to make a sound. His throat’s sore. “You'd. You'd miss it.”

“Hmm.” Sliding her hand up, Claire scratches gently through his hair, curving over his ear and down to the nape of his neck. Matt's head drops forward, but she's still got him, fingers cupping the back of his neck, guiding him down to her shoulder. She smells good, she always does, _hospital_ becomes a comforting scent on her, familiar and steadfast, softened by coconut oil and aloe soap. If it weren't for the smoke and ash, his entire apartment might smell like her when she leaves.

There are whole days when it does. But then it fades. It always fades.

For a while, Matt lets himself drift. It’s a good kind of journey this time, a welcoming blankness, not quite meditation, but not too far from it. When a twinge in his back becomes loud enough to lead him back home, Matt shifts, and Claire draws back, palms lifting to cup his cheeks, thumbs rubbing just beneath his ears. “Hey,” she says. “Hey. That door that let me in? It could let other people in too, you know. You could call them. Or someone else could do it for you.”

Surely Claire isn’t expecting a response to this, either. Still. Still. He thinks her heart beats disappointment.

Matt walks her to the door. Maybe she’s ready to go, maybe she isn’t; Matt doesn’t try to tell, doesn’t let it matter. When he's alone, he takes a seat on the couch again, but the traces of Claire’s warmth are already dying away, and even the punch of antiseptic that lingers in her wake is no match for everything that’s burned.

A kitchen towel for a hand wrap. The windowpane sounds like shards of light.

The frigid air is a welcome shock. Glass pricks at Matt’s knees when he kneels, and the stone windowsill is chilly and damp beneath his elbows, but it’s the cold on his face that he truly takes in. The hundreds of thousands of smells in the city. 

Somewhere, Foggy’s conditioner; somewhere, Karen’s coffee. Somewhere, the scent of orchids.

**Author's Note:**

> I [tumble](http://significantowl.tumblr.com)! :)


End file.
